A Beautiful Mess Inside
by SarahBee2013
Summary: Lia has finally been given the okay to attend college. She's nervous about her first day, and certain scars and shadows follow her wherever she goes. Maybe with the help of one guy, she can overcome her worst enemy: herself.


New girl.

That was what I was starting about twenty minutes ago when the car pulled into the main entrance of the campus.

Most people start their college years right after high school at about the age of eighteen or so. That is what most people do, the typical, average people who do not spend two years in intense therapy, counseling and hospital rooms. I guess I am not like most people.

At age twenty, I am a freshman in the community college (only because everyone is paranoid I will relapse again so going far away is not an option). Heck, my family is so paranoid, that I have to commute so I have to drive half an hour every morning and half an hour to home. Yep, that's me: new freaky commuter girl with a paranoid family.

"Lia, are you even listening to anything I just said?" Jennifer questioned as we walked to the administration building.

I sighed, wishing I had been brave enough to wear short sleeves on such a blistering hot day in late August. The sun was burning through the fabric of my cotton blue shirt, and I felt like in any second I would start on fire. Jennifer stopped, repeating her question louder (as if that would help get my attention because if anything, Jennifer was only embarrassing me), "Lia! Are you listening?"

My eyes looked at her, "Yes, you mentioned something about the cafeteria."

"Yes, you need to make sure you get the meal plan for three meals a day," Jennifer stated, obviously fed up with the fact she was dragged into taking me on my first day because my mom was in an emergency surgery, and dad was working.

I nodded, saying annoyed, "I know, okay?"

"Okay," Jennifer nodded as we walked into the administration building.

As Jennifer talked with one of the admissions ladies about where I needed to go, my schedule and possibly my sanity, I sat on a comfortable looking chair, fidgeting with my sleeves, desperately wanting to roll them up. I couldn't. I couldn't display my scars and have everyone staring, wondering what this messed up shorthaired blonde girl was up to. This was my one chance for a fresh start, and I was not about to mess it up.

When Jennifer finished her conversation, she started walking to the door, and I followed her outside into the bright sunshine. She handed me some papers, "That's got your schedule. We need to get a parking pass, and then we need to talk to the counseling department."

"Counseling?" I questioned, inwardly dreading what was to come.

Jennifer nodded, strictly saying, "We are not having another relapse, alright?"

I nodded, knowing if I argued with her, the privilege of even attending college could be revoked. We got my parking pass, talked with the counselors about signing me up for sessions, and then headed home.

The next morning, I threw on a pair of capris, a nice shirt with a hoodie over stop, the long sleeves covering my scars. When I walked downstairs to eat breakfast, my mom glanced at my outfit, "Are you sure you want to wear a hoodie on a day like this? It's going to be sunny and warm."

"I'm sure," I stated plainly, hoping that I'd be able to leave the house without her asking questions.

She made no more arguments with me as I ate my breakfast and hurried out the door. Once I arrived back on the campus, I silently walked to my first class of the day, keeping my eyes focused on what lay ahead of me and not bothering to focus on any stares or whispers. Sure, I'd be known as the weird girl who wore a hoodie in 79 degree sunny weather, but at least I would be free from the questions and giving pointless explanations to people who could really care less. I was fine with this routine.

The classes flew by as the first day was just syllabus day, go over names and find out what everyone wanted to do with their four years of school. Pointless. The only class that even captured my attention was gym. The dreaded class required for one credit that no one likes to take, except for maybe the athletic people. But for people who cannot run a mile under five minutes or throw a perfect freethrow or score a point in tennis, gym is the worst. Once I arrived in the gymnasium, my eyes glimpsed several stick thin girls who probably skipped breakfast this morning, the awkward guy sitting on the floor, staring at his cellphone, the other guys who were clearly excited for the class as they discussed last night's basketball game, and one other guy who merely stood leaning against the wall, his arms folded across a blue t-shirt that had some words written on it. The guy who was presumably our teacher came walking in with a clipboard, calling out, "Alright everyone, this is Physical Education 102, section A. If you are not in the correct class, please leave now."

Only one person left. Everyone else stared at him like zombies, waiting for the next instruction. He spoke loud, his voice echoing in my ears, "I am Coach Phillips. You may address me as such, or Mr. Phillips if you prefer…."

After that, my ears zoned out as I leaned against the wall adjacent to the other messy brown haired guy in the blue t-shirt. The coach continued on his rant about the rules, and we were going to be starting our class with running. Immediately, my mind went back to the doctors who had told me that anything could be a trigger for a relapse. Exercise was on the list. At least, hard-core exercise like running was. I bit my lip, my fingers itching to reach for the sky so the coach would know, but I could not in front of my peers. They would ask questions. They would want answers. I would have to reopen my wounds just for them.

Then the coach wanted everyone to introduce themselves, which was as awkward as could be. One by one, stick figure girls spoke their names, and then the awkward guy, athletic guys and blue t-shirt guy spoke softly, almost in barely audible, "Clay Jenson."

I was next. My voice was soft and light as my name came from my lips, "Lia."

We finished for the day, and I headed straight for the counseling session I was scheduled for. I noticed Clay followed me, but I made no sound and kept walking, hoping to avoid conversation. I went to the counseling office, and Clay followed suit. The receptionist pointed me in the direction for the correct room. Little did I realize, I would be starting in group sessions. Lucky me. The lead counselor smiled warmly, "Please, take a seat, and we will get started soon."

I sat near the window, wishing I could fly out through the glass. Clay sat down across the circle from me. A few other students walked in, silently sitting down in chairs, a couple only starting basic conversation before the session. The counselor stated, "I'm Mrs. Greerly, I recognize a few familiar faces today. I hope you had a good summer. Let's start off with hearing from one of my returning students, Clay? Would you be willing to testify to how these sessions have helped you?"

Clay looked up, his hazel eyes flickering in my direction for a moment, "Sure. I guess I've learned that the pain never really leaves you. It stays, but the pain helps you heal and realize you're only human, like everyone else."

I bit my lip, averting my eyes from his, and Mrs. Greerly smiled in approval, "Very nicely said, Clay. Would anyone else care to share?"

After the session ended, I spoke with Mrs. Greerly about my gym class. She suggested to get a doctor's note and explain to the professor what I was dealing with. I left the building, heading straight for my car, avoiding any conversations, simply wanting to go home.

The next day of school during gym class, I could feel the sweat on my entire body as I wore modest shorts and a long sleeved hoodie to cover my scars. The blistering sun in the sky was only another form of torture as our teacher required us to go outside on the track, claiming today was a beautiful day for running. Yeah, sure it is, for anyone who loves running around in a circle and can get a decent time. I handed him my note, and no questions were asked. While everyone else ran around, practically fainting from exhaustion, I walked around the track, receiving glares from several of the stick-figure girls. If only they knew how much I wanted to be able to live like they did, being able to run without worrying about my weight or eat as many twinkies that my stomach could hold. If only they knew.

I kept an even pace, walking slowly, but not too slow that the coach would yell and order me to start a slow jog. I was doing fine according to him and my doctors. But then again, no one is ever truly fine. Not even the stick-figure girls. Several of my classmates passed me without so much as one word, except for him. Clay slowed down a little, looking over at me with a curious look, like he was trying to study me like some kind of biology dissection. My eyes peered over towards him, and he asked, "How are your classes so far?"

"Fine," I shrugged.

He mentioned, "I've never been a fan of gym class. It only embarrasses the heck out of anyone who isn't athletic."

"You're doing pretty well though," I pointed out.

He shrugged, "I used to be on my high school's basketball team."

I nodded, "Why did you quit?"

"Personal reasons," He mentioned quietly.

I knew personal reasons meant more than an injury. Of course, I was not about to discuss that with him because then he would only ask about why I was walking and wearing a hoodie in the blazing sunshine of early September. The coach shouted that class was done for today, and loud sighs of relief echoed on the track. Clay and I walked back to the building saying nothing, and part of me almost wished I had spoken something, but I decided against it.

The every other day counseling sessions during the next week with the support group was no better than the gym class. Everyone was too shy to speak, or Mrs. Greerly was too oblivious to the fact that no one wanted to be there in the first place. After the awkward session ended, she pulled me aside saying, "Lia, I think you would really benefit from these sessions if you just opened up a little. I know it's hard, but at least try."

I wanted to tell her that she had no clue what hard meant until she would sit in a hospital with tubes and machines hooked up to her because her stomach couldn't handle actual food. Instead, I said nothing, hoping she would leave me alone. After two weeks of the dreadful running unit, coach decided to switch it up and have us play basketball. We began working on dribbling and a lot of the girls acted helpless around the athletic guys. No wonder they were stick-figures.

Even though I hadn't taken a gym class in a couple of years, I still knew how to shoot baskets or dribble the ball around the court at least somewhat decently so I would not make a fool of myself.

The next day, I was getting lunch when the person in front of me turned, spilling lukewarm coffee on my hoodie. I cringed inside, trying to be as understanding as possible. The person apologized, but it did not matter. The damage was already done. I was forced to go to the locker room, put on a spare t-shirt I had in my duffel bag and let my coffee stained hoodie dry in the sink. Standing in front of the mirror, my eyes instantly focused on the scars on my arms. I bit my lip, knowing I could not simply skip gym class. Yet, I could not force myself to expose the one thing I struggled with for so long.

The image of myself in the mirror cut deeper than anything else had. Nothing could compare to what I saw every time I looked into the shiny glass. The long pale limbs marred by months of agony and pain deeper than any sharp blade could go. I swallowed, trying to regain my composure, but I turned to the door and slowly opened it.

No one was in the gym, but even then, I could not face my peers. Turning back around, I walked through the locker room back to outside, walking towards the parking lot, wishing I could just disappear. I thought I could make this new life thing work, but apparently not. Then someone called out my name, "Lia!"

I turned, seeing Clay running after me, "Just leave me alone."

He didn't turn back. He kept following me, saying persistently, "I can't do that."

I sighed, wishing he'd leave me be, "I'm not cut out for this, okay? I'm going home. Maybe my doctors were right. I'm too messed up for anything of this."

Clay gently grabbed my arm, keeping me from walking away, "You're not too messed up, okay?"

"Yes, I am," I spat back at him, "You have no idea what I've been through the past couple of years."

"I think I do," He stated softly, looking at me with those deep brown eyes.

I shook my head, arguing, "You don't. I did a lot of stuff that I'm not proud of. I practically fell off the edge of the earth and reached the borderline of death. For one day, I wish I could look at a piece of food and think about how wonderful it tastes instead of how many calories it contains! My doctors can never fix that part of me! They try and analyze me, send me to group therapy, but in reality nothing can change the fact that I'm anorexic and I will always have that with me, no matter how many sessions or treatments I have!"

Tears stung in my eyes by the end of my anger-filled outburst. For the first time since my release from the hospital, I admitted it. I am anorexic. Clay bit his lip, and he hesitated before quietly saying, "I knew a girl who committed suicide. I blamed myself for it for so long. In the end, I've come to realize that I'm still here. Nothing can change what happened to her now, but the future can change. I'm not proud of the fact that I never saw the signs, but I'm trying to make a difference for the future."

I felt self-conscious about my scars, my fingers trying to cover them up as I stood there. Clay added, "Everyone has scars. Sometimes they're just more visible on others, but that doesn't make you weak. You're still a stunningly beautiful girl."

Then he took off his hooded gray sweatshirt, handing it me. The fabric was still warm, and I looked at him, "Why are you even bothering?"

He bit his lip, "Because everyone needs somebody."

His words struck me. Instead of putting the sweatshirt on, I handed it back to him, "Thanks, but I think I'll be okay."

He nodded, and asked, "So, now will you come back to class so I can beat you at basketball?"

I smiled at his question, feeling the happiness soak into me for the first time in a while, "Sure, but I don't think I'm that bad at basketball."

We walked back to the gym, and I knew everything would be okay. For the first time, I felt confidence rise within me as I walked through the doors. Anorexia would always follow behind me like a lost shadow, but I would not let it define every aspect of me. I would be okay, and I wasn't alone. No one ever truly is.

**a/n: a cross over between _Thirteen Reasons Why _and the book _Wintergirls. _The characters Clay and Lia belong to their respective authors. Thanks for reading!**


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